


A Fox in the Henhouse

by Tehri



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bungo is so done, Bungo tries, Childhood, F/M, Family, Foxes, Young Bilbo Baggins, he really tries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-24 00:36:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12001254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tehri/pseuds/Tehri
Summary: It had been so quiet. So peaceful. Deceptively so, in retrospect; with a nine-year-old in the smial, you grew to expect a lot of noise. It was normal, plain and simple, and yet the day had been disturbingly quiet. Bungo had even been allowed to work in peace – something that was decidedly unusual when it came to his son. Normally he’d be interrupted every few minutes for this or that.So when he suddenly heard a crash from his son’s room, and said son letting out an almost frightened yelp, he was understandably concerned.





	A Fox in the Henhouse

Having married a Took – and a daughter of Gerontius Took the Old, at that – Bungo Baggins was fairly used to unusual things occurring every now and then. You rather grew to expect the unexpected where that family was involved, be it sudden firework shows or revelations of weapons being hidden about the smial.

That one had been odd. He’d found a spear in the wine cellar one day and had, surprisingly enough, simply shrugged and shook his head before taking what he came for and left. He’d never asked his wife about it, and he was certainly not about to do so in case she had one of her ideas; the last idea had been that he should learn to use a bow. It had taken several hours and finally a bribe in form of a pie to convince her that it was a bad idea.

Yes, Belladonna Took was certainly something unusual. As was her entire family, of course. It stood to reason that their son, Bilbo, was to be a little unusual as well despite the more stable influence of Bungo and the rest of the Baggins-family. But what Bungo found upon leaving his study to investigate strange noises in his son’s room one sunny summer afternoon was certainly more out of the ordinary than most things.

It had been so quiet. So peaceful. Deceptively so, in retrospect; with a nine-year-old in the smial, you grew to expect a lot of noise. It was normal, plain and simple, and yet the day had been disturbingly quiet. Bungo had even been allowed to work in peace – something that was decidedly unusual when it came to his son. Normally he’d be interrupted every few minutes for this or that.

So when he suddenly heard a crash from his son’s room, and said son letting out an almost frightened yelp, he was understandably concerned. He reluctantly put his pen back in the inkwell, rose from his seat, and left the study to go and see what was going on. He hoped somehow that Belladonna would’ve gone to see first, but she was always more tolerant of noise than he was. He supposed it came from having grown up with so many siblings, not to mention such a boisterous father.

As he approached Bilbo’s room, moving as slowly and quietly as he could to allow the lad a little bit of time to gather himself, he listened carefully. Bilbo was talking to someone – and he sounded worried, and a little cross.

“You can’t do that,” the lad said. “No, stop it! They’ll know it wasn’t me! No, give me back my bunny! Give it back!”

Bungo frowned. Whoever was in there with his son was not responding, but there were tearing noises and bumps every now and then that Bilbo seemed to react to. But none of his friends were particularly destructive – not that he knew, at least. Finally he’d had enough of listening and stepped up to the door, pulling it open.

There by the bed was Bilbo, clutching the remains of his stuffed toy bunny in his arms, and in the corner of the room, busy scratching at a pillow, was a young fox.

He stood as though frozen for a long while, staring at the cub, and tried to comprehend what on earth he was seeing. The little vase that Bilbo liked to put flowers in had been pushed onto the floor and smashed. The bedlinens were torn here and there, and there were crumbs of food scattered about the room – more than likely, Bilbo had once had a little stash somewhere that his parents hadn’t known about, but which the fox kit had sniffed out. And then there were the remains of the bunny, now headless, strewn everywhere. And Bilbo stood in the middle of the carnage and stared up at his father in shock and wagged his mouth while trying to think of something to say.

“Bilbo,” Bungo said at last, patient as ever though his voice shook a little when he spoke. “Why is there a fox in your room?”

“He followed me home,” Bilbo stated immediately.

“Pardon me if I find that hard to believe,” the older hobbit answered, his voice flat. “So I’ll ask you again. Why is there a fox in your room?”

“He was lonely,” the hobbit lad said at last, blushing as he stared down at the floor. “And you said we couldn’t have a cat because they make mum sneeze. So I thought we could have a dog.”

“That is not a dog. That is a fox. And it was probably not lonely at all.”

“But his mama wasn’t there,” Bilbo protested. “I just thought-“

“Bilbo, foxes are not pets. You know that.” Bungo’s patience was fraying. Though he was loath to do so, he took on a stern tone of voice – expertly modelled after his own father’s. “The mother was probably off hunting if she wasn’t nearby. You nabbed a fox kit and brought it home with you. For goodness’ sake, you nabbed a fox kit and brought it home!” He raised his voice slightly at those last words, took a deep breath, and watched as understanding began to dawn on his son’s face. The fox, frightened of the raised voice, made a chattering noise and scuttled underneath the bed to hide. “How on earth did you even catch it? Or bring it here, without your mother or me noticing?”

At this, Bilbo began to squirm a little where he stood. The lad pointedly looked away, staring down at his feet with a decidedly guilty expression on his face. For but a moment, his gaze strayed to the crumbs of food here and there, and Bungo took another deep breath and closed his eyes, waiting for the confession that he knew would come.

“I took a bit of food from the pantry when I went out,” Bilbo mumbled. “And I made a trail, and he followed.”

Exhaling forcefully, Bungo reluctantly opened his eyes again.

“Of course you did,” he groaned. “Right. Well, we are not keeping a fox in the house. I’m not keen on waking up to find that you and your mother have been eaten during the night.”

“Eaten?!” Bilbo squeaked, quickly shuffling away from the bed – away from the fox.

“Yes, eaten,” Bungo snapped back; for once he felt very little guilt at the tears rising in his son’s eyes. Sometimes, he reasoned, lessons were hard to learn, and parents sometimes had to get angry for that to happen. He had a sneaking suspicion that he would feel horrible indeed later, once it was all over and done with. “Foxes do sometimes find injured or small hobbits to be easy prey,” he continued sharply. “And I daresay sleeping hobbits count as easy prey! Now, where did you find it?”

“The meadow, to the north,” Bilbo answered meekly. “At the bottom of the Hill, by the pond.”

“By the- Bilbo, you’re not supposed to go that far alone!”

“I’m sorry, da…”

The older hobbit stepped away from the door and approached the bed, kneeling down beside it and peering underneath. The fox laid stiff as a rock in the corner and stared back at him. The trick would be to grab it without being bitten or scratched, but he wondered if that would be at all possible. It was definitely not an adult yet, but it was certainly large enough to cause a fair amount of damage if he wasn’t careful.

“What on earth were you shouting for?” Belladonna’s voice sounded more curious than shocked. “And what on earth happened to this room? What’s all this about a fox?”

“Have a look,” Bungo answered grimly as he rose from the floor and gestured towards the bed. “It’s right there.”

Belladonna gave him a quizzical look before she stepped into the room, gingerly avoiding the shards of the vase, and knelt down by the bed to peer underneath it.

“Why in the world is there a fox in our smial?” The change in her voice would normally have both her husband and son diving for cover; Bungo, however, held up one hand once she turned around and shook his head.

“Never mind that for now,” he said sharply. “We need to get that beast out of here.” He glanced at his son, seeing the worried look on his face. A part of him wanted to scoop the lad into his arms and reassure him that it was alright and could be fixed; but there was still the part of him that worried what could have happened if the fox had been given free reign, once it had cleaned out the pantry. That last part of him was willing to let the child stew in his guilt for a while longer. “We can discuss the how once we’re rid of the fox.”

“How do you plan to be rid of it?” Belladonna asked flatly. “I’m certainly not sticking my arm in there for it to chew on.” Bungo opened his mouth to reply, but his wife continued before he had a chance to start a sentence. “And no more food. Whatever it’s been eating, there’s been enough of it.”

Bungo shut his mouth again and frowned. Well, that was one thought gone. Getting the fox out the same way it had gotten in had seemed reasonable. Besides, much like his wife, he was not about to stick his harm under the bed. He couldn’t imagine that an upset young fox would willingly bite or hold on to just about anything – using a broom-handle to haul the thing out of there was out of the question.

“Well, if you have any ideas,” he stated crossly after a while of thinking, “then I would love to hear them. We certainly can’t set up a fox-trap in our son’s room!”

“I could send word to my brother,” Belladonna suggested. At her husband’s blank and quite frankly unimpressed stare, she seemed to remember that she had more than one brother and that elaboration was in order. “Hildigrim. He’s always been good with fox-hunting.”

“That still leaves us with a day or two without a solution,” Bungo sighed.

“Uncle can’t hurt him,” Bilbo cried suddenly, turning wide tear-filled eyes on his mother. “He’s just a baby!”

“Him?” Belladonna raised a questioning eyebrow at her husband.

“The fox,” Bungo answered in an exasperated tone of voice. “And Bilbo, if there is a way to get rid of the fox without hurting it, I’m certain your uncle will know how. But if there isn’t…”

For all that his son still needed a suitable punishment, Bungo didn’t quite have the heart to finish his last sentence. It was oddly endearing to see that the little lad cared for animals, be they dangerous ones or not. There had been an occasion, not too long ago, when they had visited Belladonna’s parents in Tuckborough and Bilbo had seen the bear-skin rug in his grandfather’s office. The lad had begun wailing and had refused to set foot in there again, and he’d rejected each and every attempt poor Gerontius had made at placating him.

This was, well, different. For one, the fox was not a rug. It was very much alive and making chattering noises under the bed, probably confused about why it hadn’t been hauled out of there already. And in addition, Bilbo seemed surprisingly placated by the knowledge that there could be a way and that his uncle would know, and he only nodded in response to his father’s words.

“I’ll go and see if I can’t find someone to take a message to the Great Smials,” Belladonna sighed. “Or I’ll go by myself.”

“What of the fox?” Bungo asked. “We can’t leave it in here, surely.”

“If you have any ideas,” his wife drawled, repeating his words from earlier, “then I would love to hear them.”

 

* * *

 

No matter how much his father or his siblings or indeed his wife claimed the opposite, Bungo Baggins would never admit to being a hobbit who would sulk when things did not go his way. But perhaps he did sulk, just a little bit, when Belladonna came back to the smial just before tea-time to inform him that there was not a single hobbit in all of Hobbiton who was going south towards Tuckborough, much less one able to take time out of their day to carry a message.

“Post won’t come through until the day after tomorrow, if I know postmaster Brockhouse,” she stated grimly. “I’ll have to go myself.”

“Surely not,” Bungo cried. “Bella, don’t start – da has a cart, I’ll ask to borrow it!”

“Then I won’t be on my way until late evening. It’s a bit of a walk, but I’ll make better time on foot if I start now.”

As much as he tried to argue, there was little one could do to sway the mind of Belladonna. She gathered a little bit of food for the road and slung her pack over her shoulder, paying no mind to her husband’s objections.

“Just you look after Bilbo, darling,” she told him when she took her walking stick from its place by the door. “I should be back with Hildigrim around noon tomorrow.”

“If you’re lucky,” Bungo stated glumly. “Belladonna, how on earth is this fair?”

“Of course it’s fair,” she answered. She gave him a warm patient smile. “Unless you’d like to convince my brother to come back to Hobbiton with you for a matter such as this?”

“It was your idea!”

“It was, and a fine one. Besides, he’s more likely to listen to me.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but she danced out the door and closed it firmly behind her before he could get a word out. With a deep sigh, Bungo turned to his son. Bilbo had been tense since the fox had been discovered and was understandably distraught at finding both his parents to be upset with him. He’d been hiding in the parlour for a long while, choosing to stay away until the worst had blown over, but now he’d come out and stood there staring up at his father.

“Is mum very angry with me?” he asked quietly. “Is that why she’s leaving?”

“No, lad, it is not.” Bungo shook his head and gave Bilbo a small smile. “She has to fetch your uncle.”

“She’s not angry?”

“A little irked, I believe. Come, how about you and I make something to eat?”

He started towards the kitchen, but paused when a small hand took hold of his shirt and tugged. Bilbo stared up at him with wide imploring eyes.

“Are you angry, da?” he asked. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to do something bad.”

For a moment, Bungo thought on how he’d treated his son during the afternoon. He’d been unusually harsh only in raising his voice earlier – he never had to do that, and he certainly didn’t enjoy it. To proceed to give him the silent treatment for such a long while had given him time to cool down a little, and now he simply knelt down and pulled the child into a tight embrace.

“No, Bilbo-lad, I’m not angry,” he said softly. “Not anymore, at least. I’m not pleased, mind you. But I’d say you’ve been punished enough, and I don’t like being cross with you.”

“I don’t want you to be angry,” Bilbo admitted. “You get scary.”

“Good thing I’m not angry often, then.” Bungo pulled back and gave his son a smile. “Well, it’s just about tea-time, and you and I have the smial to ourselves for the night. I do believe there are a few things in the pantry with our names on them.”

For a while, Bungo chose to not think of the fox that still had free reign in Bilbo’s room. Whatever damage it caused could be taken care of once it was out of there. Instead, he focused on what they were to eat and how to prepare it. Bilbo helped him, as best he could; for all that hobbits learned to cook early, Bilbo was still only allowed smaller tasks in the kitchen. Most of the time, he had to observe rather than work. But Bungo was nothing if not a patient teacher and explained carefully what he was doing and why, and what effect it would ultimately have.

It was not until late in the evening that the fox came to his mind again. He’d just suggested that perhaps it was time for Bilbo to get some sleep, and Bilbo had only stood there and given him a blank stare for a long while before it clicked.

“Where should I sleep?” Bilbo asked. “You said I can’t go into my room.”

Bungo swore under his breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. Figuring out precisely where Bilbo was to sleep was not too difficult – there were plenty of guest-rooms in the smial for a good reason – and there were a few extra nightshirts stashed in Bungo’s and Belladonna’s wardrobes. As for day-clothes… He gave his son a thoughtful look. Both shirt and trousers could likely stand being worn another day; they’d have to, seeing how the rest of the lad’s clothes were still in the occupied room.

“I’ll go and see about getting one of the guest-rooms ready,” the older hobbit sighed. “We’ll find you a nightshirt as well.”

As Bilbo scurried off with orders to find himself a nightshirt and to get ready for bed, Bungo went to the best guestroom, the one closest to his and Belladonna’s bedroom. It had been closed for some time; they’d not had guests stay overnight since Belladonna’s birthday in Rethe, and the air in the room had grown stuffy. But it was Afterlithe now, and it was warm enough outside to keep the window open for a while. He pushed it open, listening with a smile to the sound of Bilbo rummaging around on the other side of the wall. Somewhere outdoors, maybe in the oak above the smial, he could hear a blackbird’s song. It was almost deceptively peaceful.

“Belladonna should have made it to Tuckborough by now,” he said to himself. “She’ll be having a late supper with her family, I’d wager.”

He never liked when she was away. But Tooks were wanderers – that was simply the way things were. She’d gone on her journeys even when they were courting, whether he’d liked it or not, and his father Mungo had told him more than once that he’d have to put up with it.

“I shan’t fault you for loving her,” he’d said, “but if you can’t love her entirely, wandering spirit and all, then you should not pursue her.”

He’d been right, had he not? Bungo smiled to himself and shook his head. So long as she came back to him, it was not a bother. He’d learned, just as he’d learned how to handle Bilbo’s little oddities.

“I found it,” Bilbo cried triumphantly from the other room.

“Very good,” Bungo called back, laughter in his voice, as he turned away from the window to turn down the covers on the bed. “Off you go and wash, then! Try not to get water everywhere, will you?”

“I haven’t done that for years,” Bilbo protested. “I’m not a fauntling!”

“Haven’t done that for a single year,” Bungo muttered under his breath. But he smiled all the same as he smoothed down the bedlinens and picked up the pillow to give it a shake. “But yes, you are growing up fast.”

Though it certainly took a while, he waited patiently until his son came into the guestroom; the nightshirt Bilbo had found was just a little too small, but it would have to do. He’d grown much since he wore it last, but if he could fit into it without too much discomfort, it would likely be alright.

“Into bed you get, lad.” Bungo tilted his head a little as the lad climbed up and crawled under the blankets. He wasn’t at all certain of why, but Bilbo never seemed to argue as much about bedtimes with him as he did with his mother. It was a relief, all the same, to not have to attempt to convince or placate him. It could take Belladonna almost half an hour to convince her son to go to bed, whereas Bungo’s record was not more than a few minutes. “And I suppose you want a story tonight?”

Bilbo only grinned in response – the only response needed – and Bungo launched into one of the many stories he’d been told as a child.

“No, only one tonight,” he said when he’d finished and Bilbo asked for another. “As far as punishments go, I’d say this is a bit milder than giving you the silent treatment, don’t you think?” He winked at the lad and laughed. “Your mother will probably think it fitting enough.”

“Mum says that you’re no good at punishments,” Bilbo revealed, still grinning at him.

“No, indeed I am not,” Bungo answered as he leant in and pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead. “But neither is she. Now get some sleep, little bunny, and we’ll deal with the fox when your uncle comes here tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

Bungo was a hobbit who was often late to bed; time simply seemed to flow differently when he was reading or working, and it was often well past midnight before he knew it. Such had not been the case today. He’d tried to work a little bit more, to catch up on what he’d left behind in his study earlier in the day, but it was no use. His mind wandered and exhaustion claimed him sooner than he would have liked.

He couldn’t have slept many hours when he woke again. It was not yet dawn, but the darkest hours of the night had passed. It was slowly getting brighter again. He frowned and rolled over on his side, sighing as he closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. Then he heard what must have woken him in the first place.

At first, he thought it was a scream. It sounded so much like the scream of a frightened hobbit lass, though shorter and not as high-pitched. He sat up in his bed and turned his gaze to the window, frowning as he tried to think of what on earth was going on. When he heard the sound yet again, it was closer; whatever it was had to be in the garden.

Before he could get up, the door to the bedroom creaked open, and he nearly jumped with fright at the noise.

“Da, I’m scared,” Bilbo whispered. “There’s something in the garden.”

Bungo sighed deeply, relaxing a little at the sound of his son’s voice.

“Come here, my boy,” he said quietly. “I heard it too.”

As Bilbo scuttled over to the bed and climbed up on it, Bungo rose and snuck over to the window and pulled the curtains apart a little to peek outside. In the dim grey light of foredawn, he had a fairly good view of the garden – and of the copper-furred beast that snuck around out there, sniffing at every stone and pausing every so often to let out another scream.

“Well, there she is,” Bungo murmured. “I think we have a vixen in our garden.”

“What’s a vixen?” Bilbo asked fearfully. “Is it dangerous?”

“It’s a female fox, little bunny. Perhaps it’s the mother of our houseguest.” He paused and chewed on the inside of his lower lip for a moment. “Stay here,” he said at last. “I’ll go and close the window in the guestroom; it’s a little too close to the ground for my comfort. And I suppose I’ll take a quick look at your room as well.”

Though Bilbo looked decidedly uncertain about the idea of being left alone when there was a vixen sneaking about outside, Bungo crept out of the room and into the guestroom where Bilbo had slept. The window was indeed still open, and he could hear scuffling just outside it. Deciding to err on the side of caution, he moved along the wall and peeked outside; he’d rather not have his hand suddenly between the jaws of an irate vixen all of a sudden. All he saw was her tail as she snuck away from the window, seemingly unaware of his presence. Quiet as a mouse, Bungo took hold of the window frame and pulled it shut, locking it with great care. Though she would certainly have heard that, at the very least she could not get inside anymore.

Still moving as silently as a cat, he left the room and crept down the smial’s main passage to the door that led to Bilbo’s bedroom. He reached out for the handle, but paused before he even touched it; there was a furious scratching at the door, and he could hear snuffling and quiet growls on the other side.

“I suppose you heard your mother,” he muttered to himself. “Well, I’d be scratching like mad if I thought I could get out too.” He sighed softly; a part of him felt sorry for the poor beast. It was only a cub, after all. “Tomorrow. You’ll get to go home tomorrow, I promise. Though I can’t answer for precisely how.”

Upon returning to his bedroom, he found Bilbo still curled up under the covers. The lad watched him worriedly as he snuck over to the window to take one last peek outside; he could see the fox out there, weaving in and out between the bushes, and he wondered distantly at how thin she was.

“Is food scarce this year, my dear?” he murmured. “You look so very thin. It cannot be healthy for any creature to look as you do, half-starved and running yourself ragged trying to find your missing cub.”

“She can’t get inside, can she, da?” Bilbo asked quietly, breaking him out of his reveries. “You closed the window, didn’t you?”

“I closed it, I promise,” Bungo answered. He gave his son a warm smile as he returned to bed and crawled under the covers. “She won’t come inside. But I believe she will be glad to have her cub returned to her tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

Much as Belladonna had predicted, it was just around noon that she returned to Bag End. Bungo had spent much of the morning going about the garden and searching for tracks after the vixen, and he was seated on the bench by the front door when a cart came rolling up the road. On the driver’s seat sat Belladonna, laughing and waving at him, next to her brother Hildigrim, a copper-haired and tall stout hobbit with a speckle of freckles over his face.

“Right on time,” Bungo called as the cart came to a halt by the gate. “Though I suppose you delayed the journey for the sake of the cart.” He laughed as well when his wife leapt off the cart and threw the gate open to run up the steps and embrace him. “I told you that my father had a cart, you silly goose.”

“And I wanted a walk,” Belladonna replied brightly. “Besides, this way Hildigrim can get home on his own a little faster. Adalgrim gets into all sorts of mischief with his father away, and Rosa would shave my feet if I kept him away too long.”

“Poor cousin Rosa,” Bungo sighed empathically.

“Poor Rosa, indeed,” laughed Hildigrim as he came up the steps, a pack slung over his shoulder. “Good day to you, Bungo! What’s this about a fox in your smial?”

“Ask your nephew,” Bungo suggested with a wry smile. He liked Hildigrim; for a Took, he was downright tolerable, and he was a good deal calmer and less aggressive than his older brothers. It helped, of course, that cousin Rosa had a good influence on him. “Or if you’d prefer not to, I hope you’ve heard the story about the fauntlings and the trail of breadcrumbs.”

Hildigrim had indeed heard the story – what young hobbit hadn’t? But he laughed again, a booming laugh similar to his father’s, and asked to see the room.

“I won’t need any traps for this,” he stated brightly as they led him through the smial. “A single fox, and a young one at that. A pair of gloves should be all I need, and I have those with me.”

“We think we may have had the vixen here last night,” Bungo explained, glancing at his brother-in-law over his shoulder. “At the very least, there was a fox making a ruckus outside.”

“Could very well be,” Hildigrim answered. “It’s a little early for the cubs to wander off on longer trips by themselves, so she’d likely come looking for it.”

“She was very thin,” Bungo said slowly. He frowned as he thought of the few glimpses he’d caught of the poor beast. “Is it a meagre year, do you think?”

“Plenty of mice and other rodents about that they eat,” Hildigrim chuckled. “Don’t you fret about a fox, Bungo. They always find something or other to eat – mostly farmers’ priced hens, by what I see around Tuckborough. Your vixen will be alright.”

When they came to a stop outside Bilbo’s room, Hildigrim stepped close to the door and pressed his ear against it to listen for any sounds. It seemed that he heard nothing, for he simply pulled off his pack, opened it, and took out a pair of gloves.

“I’ll have to have a look,” he stated. “You’d best stay out here, I think, in case it tries to bolt.”

Moving quietly and carefully, he pulled on the gloves and finally opened the door and stepped into the room. He left it open to a small crack – just enough so that he could beat a hasty retreat, but also enough to ensure that there would be no untimely escapes on the fox’s part. Bungo and Belladonna stood stock-still in the passage outside, listening nervously for any and all sounds. Somewhere in the smial they could hear Bilbo, practicing his reading. And from within the little bedroom came a sudden explosion of noise: a loud yelp, followed by a pained cry from Hildigrim and furious barking and growling noises. They could hear scratching and thumps; for a moment, Bungo wondered if he’d have to replace every single item in the room, or if anything could be salvaged once it was all over and done with. Finally Hildigrim let out a triumphant shout:

“I have it! Bungo, Bella, there’s a sack in my bag! Grab it, quick!”

Bella snatched up the pack and pulled out the sack from it, pushing the door open and diving into the room. Bungo followed close behind her, eyes wide as he took in the sight before him. Hildigrim was kneeling on the floor and held the fox by the scruff of its neck firmly in one hand. The other hand grasped the beast’s muzzle in an attempt to make it stop biting. A tear in the red-headed hobbit’s glove suggested that perhaps he’d needed something even thicker, but there was nothing to be done about that now. Belladonna rushed forward to her brother and held the sack open, letting him simply drop the fox inside. She quickly closed it and stared at him with wide eyes.

“What now?” she asked breathlessly.

“Now?” Hildigrim asked. He sounded annoyed as he got to his feet and glared at the sack. “Now we take it outside and to wherever Bilbo found this little wretch, and we let it go. I’d love a pair of new gloves lined with fox-fur to replace these, but this one’s too young.”

“Those can be mended,” Bungo stated weakly. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“I might be bleeding a little, but nothing too bad. Little wretch bit me when I pulled him out from under the bed – though I got hold of his tail rather than his leg, so I suppose I deserved that one.” Hildigrim pulled off his gloves and eyed the bitten hand critically. It didn’t look too bad, but it would need to be cleaned to avoid an infection. “Let’s deal with the fox first. Bungo, will you join me?”

Bungo wagged his mouth as he tried to think of a reason to why he shouldn’t, but found that there was none. He had to heave a sigh of relief, though, when Hildigrim took the sack from his sister – at the very least he wouldn’t be made to carry it.

“Why not me?” Belladonna asked in an affronted tone. “I asked you to come here.”

“I’m certain your dear husband has had to reassure your son enough,” her brother answered, raising an eyebrow at her. “Perhaps Bilbo would like to hear from you that you’re not angry with him, rather than hearing it from those who wouldn’t know.”

Though she grumbled, Belladonna decided to cede the point. They left the little bedroom, closing the door on the carnage left in it, and Belladonna went to find her son while her husband and brother left the smial.

They went around the garden fence, wading through grass that had been untouched for years, and trudged on northward. Hildigrim paused every now and then to adjust his grip on the sack, or to peek inside it to ensure that the cub was alright; nothing seemed wrong, aside from it growling every time the sack opened a little.

“I imagine Bilbo wanted a pet,” the Took stated suddenly when they’d gone about halfway down the Hill. “Did he say anything about that?”

“He did,” Bungo sighed. “And yes, he did want a pet. Apparently he put out a trail of food to lead the fox home.”

“It’s better than what Isengrim did, and he was older then than Bilbo is now,” Hildigrim snickered. “Remember when we told you about the bear dens south of Tuckborough?”

“How could I forget?” Bungo raised an eyebrow at his companion, a suspicion growing in his mind. “You don’t mean to say that your brother brought home a bear cub?”

“He did precisely that! Scared the life out of me when I found it – he hid it in the room next to mine, and I wondered what the noises were. And believe me, father has never been so angry since, as he was when he found out.”

They exchanged a look, both bursting into laughter as they did so. Isengrim, the eldest of the Took siblings, liked to think of himself as more serious and more responsible. He’d helped raise most of his siblings, after all, and he’d looked after them and cared for them as much as his parents had. It was an oddly absurd thought that he would have brought something as dangerous as a bear into the Great Smials, so near to his siblings.

“What did your father actually say?” Bungo asked when his laughter died down a little.

“Oh, there were words,” Hildigrim answered, stressing the last word in the sentence. “If there has ever been a time when I thought he’d raise his hand against one of his own, it was then. He’s never been so angry with any of us since.” He gave Bungo a meaningful look. “Isengrim cried,” he confided seriously. “Sixteen years old, and he cried like a babe and cowered in the corner while father shouted at him.”

“Now, there’s a feeling I never thought I’d have,” Bungo mused. “Sympathy for Isengrim, that is. Your father is terrifying when he’s angry.”

“If it helps, mother tried to defend Grim. Only a little – she was just as upset – but she at least tried to make father stop shouting.”

It was an odd relief, Bungo thought, that his companion did not think Bilbo’s behaviour strange. Perhaps it was simply a matter of blood, of what family you belonged to. As much as Bilbo was certainly maturing into a proper young Baggins, he was entirely his mother’s son and took after her behaviour in many ways. And bringing a fox home certainly sounded like something Belladonna would do.

The pond at the bottom of the Hill was a fair distance away, hidden behind a small cluster of oaks, and they’d grown weary of walking when they finally reached the trees and the meadow Bilbo had mentioned. Looking around, there seemed to Bungo’s eyes to be no hint of a fox den anywhere nearby; but then again, he was not overly experienced in such matters. Hildigrim, on the other hand, simply put the sack down on the ground and opened it.

“Let’s take a few steps back,” he suggested. “Give the little one a bit of space. He’ll come out eventually.” He stepped back beneath the trees and sat down, leaning against the trunk of one of the old oaks, and gestured for Bungo to do the same. “There’s no hurry; we’ve all the day before us.”

Though a little reluctant to simply sit and do nothing, and more eager to return home to a potential belated luncheon, Bungo joined him beneath the tree. There was not much to do but watch the cloth of the sack twitch with every movement the fox made inside it. With the mid-day heat, the mild breeze and the lack of noise around them, he soon began to doze off.

He couldn’t have been dozing for long when Hildigrim placed a firm hand on his shoulder, causing him to jerk awake. He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but the hand on his shoulder moved to cover his mouth before he could get a sound out. Glancing at his companion, he found that Hildigrim was smiling and pointing towards the sack; and as he turned his head to look, he saw a copper-furred fox cautiously moving through the tall grass towards the sack, making low chattering noises as it approached. The fox cub, seemingly encouraged by the noises, crawled out into the open air at last.

“There we go,” murmured Hildigrim. “There’s your vixen, Bungo. She must’ve caught the cub’s scent.”

“And ours, if we wait much longer,” Bungo answered quietly. He felt a definite unease at being around the beasts out in the open. “Adult hobbits may be difficult prey, but we could be prey all the same.”

“Not in broad daylight,” Hildigrim stated. “And not in an open space like this. But we’ll have to wait another moment, I’m afraid. She might not take the cub back, and then where will we be? I need that sack, too.”

Though he tried, Bungo could not think of something to say in protest. Hildigrim knew these matters better than he did, and he had to admit that the thought of the vixen not taking her cub back was heart-breaking. But as they watched, the vixen sniffed the cub curiously and eventually seemed to decide that it was no bother. Though she turned her heads towards the hobbits every now and then, Bungo reasoned that they must be far enough from her and her cub that she would not be bothered so long as they did not come closer. The cub spun excitedly around her legs, looking for all the world like a child that had been away from their mother for months. And as they watched, the foxes slowly moved away through the tall grass, past the pond and out of sight.

 

* * *

 

When Hildigrim was at last on his way back to Tuckborough, Bungo went immediately to his study. He was behind on his work, and it couldn’t wait any longer. Though his stomach was rumbling and his thoughts consistently turned to food, he tried his best to ignore it; it would be some hours still until tea, but he’d simply have to wait. As he sat down by his desk and pulled his papers towards him, he thought of fried fish, of pork pie and salad, of ham and eggs. Shaking his head vigorously, he tried to read. Estimations of what each farm would yield during harvest, if the weather kept, based on what the fields had given the year previous. Proposed prospects for new smials along the eastern side of the Hill, on the other side of the road towards Overhill. Numbers, he decided, were difficult to focus on when one was hungry, for his thoughts immediately leapt from whatever number he read to how much of that number of any item there was in the pantry.

“This won’t do,” he grumbled; he’d just attempted for the sixth time to get through another letter from a tenant and had found his mind wandering to how many eggs there were in the pantry. “It just won’t do.”

“What won’t do?” asked a voice, and Bungo nearly leapt out of his chair in fright before he turned to see Bilbo standing in the doorway.

“I can’t focus,” Bungo admitted once he’d taken a calming deep breath. “Why on earth are you sneaking up on me?”

“Mum wanted to know if you were hungry,” the lad stated. “We already ate, but you were out.”

“Is water wet?” Bungo asked flatly. “Do spiders spin webs?”

“What?”

“Yes, I am hungry. Very hungry.” He got to his feet, reluctantly pushing his papers away. “Is there anything left?”

“A little, but it’s cold now,” Bilbo admitted. “I wanted more, but mum said we should save some for you.” He gave his father a curious look. “Is the fox alright, da?”

“Oh, he’s alright.” Bungo smiled at him and reached out to ruffle his hair. “We were a little worried that the mother wouldn’t take him back, but she seemed quite happy to see him.”

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo mumbled suddenly. “I shouldn’t have brought him home.”

“All’s well that ends well,” Bungo answered as he swept out from the study, followed closely by his son. “You made an honest mistake, and now it’s been solved. I won’t hold it against you, as long as you don’t do it again.”

“What about birds?”

Bungo paused and gave his son a suspicious look over his shoulder.

“Bilbo,” he said patiently. “Are you trying to tell me that there is a bird somewhere in my smial?”

“What? No.” Bilbo looked affronted and stared back at his father. “There was one earlier, after you left with uncle. The window was open. But mum caught it and brought it back outside. Why would I bring a bird inside?”

Bungo sighed deeply and closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and reminded himself to teach his son about cause and effect.

**Author's Note:**

> When it comes to how hobbits age, I tend to refer to [this](http://www.lotrgfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=216) short essay by Dreamflower. It's a handy little thing.


End file.
